


i found brimstone in my garden

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chara doesn't deserve this, Child Abuse, Frisk is not an innocent baby, Get Dunked On, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, No Mercy Route, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Nonverbal Communication, Nonverbal Frisk, Other, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Harm, Slow burn on their relationship, Soulless Undertale Pacifist Route, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 12,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16072955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: Chara never wanted it to be like this, but what can a ghost do?(More than you'd think.)





	1. Your human pretense is slipping

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to exorcise this plot bunny already. :P
> 
> The POV will alternate between Chara and Frisk each chapter.

_You're not very good at this, are you?_ You observe, floating beside your host. While it's possible, you don't like to spend time in their head for as long as you have to. It's broken and desolate and reminds you uneasily of the tiny flowers that bloomed through the cracks in the sidewalk when Ree set your body down.

_What?_ Frisk asks. Their hands droop into the sign, although they don't need to sign it. You can hear their thoughts just as well like this, no matter how much you wish you couldn't sometimes.

You gesture to the knife, stuck haphazardly in their pocket. Dust still clings to the blade. It makes you feel sick.

_You know what,_ you say bitterly.  _He just wanted you to_ pretend _. Never learnt that in kindy, is that it?_

_You're not going to upset me,_ Frisk says. Their face is as placid as ever, but you can see their eyelid twitch. You feel a vicious stab of satisfaction at the sight.

_Of course not,_ you say, faux sweet.  _You'd have to have emotions first._

_You don't understand,_ Frisk says tiredly. It isn't the first time. You find that you don't particularly care.

_I don't think I want to understand a murderer,_ you say. They flinch back for a moment, serene mask shattered, before they pull themself back together and continue on their slow, purposeful slog.

When they said  _all_ monsters, they meant it.

You linger a moment in hope before the determination that holds your shattered soul together pulses and yanks you forward. No matter how much you want to dive back into the flowers, you can't leave them. Their determination fuels yours. You never wanted to be roused from your grave, but apparently, you don't get a choice.

Fits with your life, though, doesn't it? You never had one. The first real choice you made in your life was climbing Mt. Ebott and look how  _that_ turned out. Maybe if you hadn't fucked up your plan, the monsters would already be free.

Maybe if you'd succeeded, the demon whose coattails you're riding would never have been born.

* * *

 

"Chara?" Ree's eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. You feel a stab of guilt, nearly as painful as the buttercup-induced spasms of agony that rip through your stomach. "I don't like this, maybe- maybe we should tell-"

"No," you pant, voice hoarse. Your throat swells with new blisters. "It will- it will work. We'll free everyone, I can- I can do this, I promise-"

"But Chara," Ree tries to protest. You shake your head, no matter how much the movement hurts.

_Let me atone for my sins,_ you think, but don't say. If you do, Ree will  _definitely_ tell and you don't want that. You don't want  _anyone_ to stop you. Maybe the Dreemurrs have forgiven you for accidentally poisoning Asgore, but you haven't forgiven  _yourself_. You don't think that you ever will. The best thing of your life, and you fucked it all up. The  _least_ you can do is be the hope they think you are.

"Can I have a glass of water?" You request. Ree slips out the door and you sigh, slumping back into the pillows and trying to ride out the freshets of pain that well up deep in your stomach. Your fingers clutch at the bedspread, convulsively digging into the fabric. Toriel washes your sheets as often as she can, but you sully and stain them so frequently, you wonder why she even bothers. You don't know why she thinks you're worth anything. Why she wants to help you at all. You wish that you could explain your plan to Mom and Dad, but you know they won't accept it. If Mom  _knows_ what's causing your sickness, you have a feeling she could cure it. You can't let that happen. Not when you could free everyone.

Ree comes back, glass of water carefully clasped between both paws, and you lever yourself up on your elbows.

"Thanks," you croak, attempting a smile. It's the least your brother deserves. You can do this. You just have to let yourself die.

And after all... Since when has _that_ been a problem for you?


	2. The demon you know I am

You swallow roughly, feeling Chara's censure as strongly as one of Undyne's spears through your soul. You don't  _know_ how to explain what you're doing to them. Hell, you can't even explain it to  _yourself_. It's like something weak and rotten inside you has finally crumbled and died. You were the child who let everyone walk all over them on the surface (until you snapped and couldn't take it anymore, but the weak piece of shit always came back). The quiet child, the placid child, the child who didn't mind a shove or a slap or harsh words spit into the stringy strands of their hair.

It's like all of that shattered at some point down here and you aren't entirely sure you want to get it back. But-

You do for Chara's sake. You... _like_ Chara, although you're sure it's one-sided. You don't see how they  _could_ like you, not when you've killed their mother. Not when you want to kill the rest of their family. Not when friend after friend has fallen to the familiar slash of your knife.  _Their_ knife, as they're fond of bitterly reminding you.

You don't know why you keep hurting the monsters. It's not that you don't see them as people. You  _do_. But maybe that's the problem. All  _humans_ have done is hurt you. When you were flung into battle for the first time, you just-

You panicked.

You know that isn't an excuse. (Certainly, Chara doesn't take it as such.) You know it doesn't make it okay. But they try to kill you, too. They  _have_ killed you, and that's  _before_ you decided (was it your decision?) that perhaps fighting back could be your way forward, to make them leave you alone...

You just want to be left alone. You just want to not be hurt anymore (but oh, how you  _deserve_ it now, the dust on your hands mocks you as you stumble forward). You know you will be judged and found wanting. Chara looks forward to it.

You can't say that you blame them anymore.

* * *

 

"Well, come on," your mother snaps at you. You swallow down your instinctive reaction and follow docilely, head bowed. You know that anyone seeing this snapshot in time would think nothing of it. You are just a recalcitrant child, your mother is doing her best. You wish you could shout the truth over the loudspeaker. Your throat burns.

"Get the bread," she orders you. You hurry to the correct side of the aisle, squatting on your heels to look over the only brand she's deemed acceptable. It's the cheapest. You don't mind, though. Food is food, after all, and at least she'll usually let you eat the cheap shit.

"Took you long enough," she snipes when you drop the loaf of bread into the cart. You don't respond, your shoulders involuntarily hunching up. There's no point in trying to reply, anyway. She doesn't like seeing you use sign language where anyone else can see you. All it will lead to is pain when you get home. She's usually pretty good at restraining herself in public, but all bets are off behind closed doors. She doesn't normally leave marks where anyone else can see them, but that makes them no less painful.

"This is why I drink, honestly," you hear her mumble as she pushes the cart toward the checkout. To your eternal shame, tears prick at your eyes. You don't know why you care. It's not like you don't  _know_ your mom's an alcoholic. If it wasn't you, it would be something else. You  _know_ that.

But oh, how you wish it was never you.

 


	3. You have been judged and found lacking

The judgment hall. As Frisk stumbles in on wooden legs, you can hear birds chirping. Improbable sunshine spills through the windows, painting the room brilliant gold. Sans waits for you, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his ratty blue jacket. His eye sockets are empty and it chills you. (You wonder if Frisk even notices.) He pushes away from the pillar he's been using as a support, taking a step forward.

"it's a beautiful day outside," he begins. Frisk blinks, sluggish and confused. Their fingers creak as they tighten around your knife. "birds are singing. flowers are blooming. on days like these, kids like you..." He pauses. One eye socket fills with a nauseating swirl of yellow and blue and you swallow uneasily. This won't end well- "...should be  _burning in hell._ "

Before Frisk can do so much as take another step, bones punch through their stomach with a sickeningly wet sound. They fold over themself, blood spilling down their sweater and pooling in one shaking cupped hand. Their soul cracks in half, like something lost and brittle, and you know they're going to reload even before they do.

 _That_... They start shaking, breathing heavily through their nose. Their eyes are wild.  _How could-_

 _Dunno,_ you say with a shrug.  _But I like him._

Frisk glares at you, shoving a dusty hand through their hair.

 _You-_ they seethe, then cut themself off.  _It doesn't matter. He's just like the rest._

 _What are you going to do when you win?_ You ask. They pause, looking uncertain.

 _What do you mean?_ They ask cautiously.

 _What are you going to do when it's just me and you in an empty world?_ You ask.  _When you're all alone, with nothing and no one but a ghost to keep you company? Or did you never stop to think this through?_

 _I- I don't know,_ Frisk admits.  _I never thought ab-_

 _Yeah, you're good at that,_ you interrupt. They huff at you before turning to march back into the judgment hall, ready to face Sans again.

This time, they last a minute.

You can't stop laughing.

* * *

 

You don't mean to fall down the hole.

You meant to climb the mountain. You've heard the legends. You know the saying.  _If you climb Mt. Ebott, you won't come back._ You don't know if you really believe there are  _monsters_ living beneath the surface, but you can't bring yourself to care. Your parents have called you a monster often enough, for a quirk of fate that isn't even your fault. You can't help that your eyes look red. They  _aren't_ \- they're a shade of reddish brown- but in the wrong light, they  _look_ red, and it's enough.

 _You're a demon, aren't you?!_ Your mother has said it so often, it still echoes in your head.  _You're a demon sent from the devil to tempt me. The Lord will prevail._

Your father never said much, of course. That would entail lifting his nose out of the bottle he's been drowning himself in since before you were born. You've had enough.

You're eleven years old. You skip more school than you go to. It's not like your parents care, anyway. Your stomach feels small and shriveled from hunger, so you don't feel an ounce of guilt for raiding the kitchen cupboards and fridge, or for grabbing a big handful of the emergency money out of the shoebox in the closet and buying a shit ton of snacks before you got on the bus to Mt. Ebott. It's not like the bespectacled gas station clerk gave a shit, during school hours or not.

The bus driver doesn't care, either, just gives you a single, incurious look as you board and pay your fare. You try to look as grown up as possible, not that that's easy in your favorite striped sweater and cargo pants, school backpack weighing down your shoulders.  The trip to Mt. Ebott seems to take an eternity and yet no time at all. By the time you hop off the bus, the sky has opened up, drizzling rain on the ground and dampening your hair to your forehead. There is a trail, narrow but still there, and you take it, sneakers digging into the dirt.

Sweat sticks your shirt to your back, mingling with the rain, but you don't care. All you can hear is your harsh pants of breath and short warbles of birdsong.

You don't even see the hole until you're nearly on top of it. You try to step back, sneakers slipping in the detritus of wet leaves and pine needles. For a moment, you think you've made it, that you're going to be safe.

Then you fall.


	4. Trapped in human skin

You hate him. It burns in the depths of your stomach as you face him again, adrenaline pumping through your veins and bloodying your tongue with the taste of metal. His perpetual grin mocks you as your fingers clench around the handle of your knife ( _my knife,_ Chara's voice whispers in the back of your mind. You do your best to ignore it). You've fought him...what is it, five times now? Ten?  _More_? And you still haven't managed to even lay a finger on him.

 _The easiest enemy_ , Chara repeats into your head, howling with laughter. You clench your teeth until it hurts. Easiest enemy, your ass.

He starts slow this time. You can dodge. You do, skidding on your knees and ignoring the raw sizzle of pain from your shredded skin. It doesn't matter. You can deal with it later. The only thing that matters is getting to him. The skeleton. The  _fucking_ -

You lunge at him, knife a silver slash through the air, and he's not there anymore. Of course not. You nearly over-balance, correcting yourself just in time to fling yourself out of the way of a volley of bones. He still has one hand in his fucking jacket pocket. He doesn't even look out of breath. You snarl, baring blood-smeared teeth at him.

"now, is that any way to greet a pal?" He asks mildly. You open your mouth to reply, to tell him to fuck off, when a sudden, burning pain infiltrates your consciousness. You look down to see a thick, jagged bone protruding through your chest. Rust red stains the top, making you feel sick.

Your soul splinters into jagged pieces to the tune of Chara's mocking laughter.

* * *

 "You're a freak, you know that?"

You don't even look up when you hear your classmate's taunting words. Your sneakers drag listless trails through the dust beneath your swing as your hands clench tighter around the chains.  _Go away, go away, go-_

"What's the matter?" He asks, stepping closer. His shadow spills over you like a taint. "Cat got your tongue?" You can  _hear_ the smirk.

Frustration boils. He reaches out, grabbing the chain of your swing, and you react without thinking, the toe of your sneaker slamming into his groin. He doubles over, retching spit on the ground as anguished groans spill out like a soup pot on the boil.

You sigh.  _Shit._ He's going to tell. And you're going to be the one in trouble because your teacher doesn't care that he's a bully. He's pampered, protected, a child loved by his parents, and you-

Well, you aren't.

By the time he manages to stumble to his feet, red and wheezing, you're already gone, scrambled up a tree at the farthest end of the playground. You know that won't save you for long, but you don't care. If you can stay out of your teacher's way until tomorrow, then maybe she'll forget. She does that sometimes.

The leaves above you shift in the currents of the wind and you sigh. Your disused throat feels tight.  _It's not fair..._ But it never is.

Not for the first time, your gaze shifts toward Mt. Ebott, obscured by clouds in the distance.

_Those who climb Mt. Ebott don't come back._

That's starting to sound better and better.


	5. You know, you're not the only one with determination

The first time you wake up again in a bed of golden flowers, you want to scream. You glare at Frisk, who looks up at you with startled eyes. Their hands keep patting their sweater compulsively, tapping and pulling at the fabric. The last thing you remember is Mom blocking the way,  hands outflung-

 _What happened?_ You demand.  _What did you do?_ Frisk flinches back, shoulders shaking.

 _I don't know,_ they admit weakly.  _There was fire- I-_

 _Mom has fire magic, you idiot,_ you snap. Perhaps you're being a little unfair to them, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not right now, anyway. They bow their head, blunt edges of their hair scraping against their chin.

 _I'm sorry,_ they whisper to you.  _I didn't- I didn't hurt her, I swear, I just-_

 _Good,_ you say.  _Keep it that way._ Frisk clambers to their feet, brushing dirt and crushed flower petals off their knees as they nod. Like they're agreeing with you. Like you can't see the intent slowly creeping into their eyes, deadening their gaze.

You already know they're going to break their promise. You wish you didn't care.

* * *

 "Miss Toriel?"

When she looks up from her knitting, gaze kind, you nearly lose your nerve. You've been with the Dreemurrs for nearly a month now, since you fell down, but it feels like no time at all. Both Toriel and Asgore have encouraged you to see them as family if you want to. You're even allowed to call them Mom and Dad, but you...can't. Not yet. No matter how much Asriel tells you that you should, in his insistent, near-bleating way.

"Yes, my child?" Toriel asks, immediately setting aside her knitting. That's another thing you've noticed, how willing each of the Dreemurrs are to abandon their pursuits and listen to their children. It feels weird to group yourself with Ree, but you can't explain it any other way. They actually  _listen_ to you. What's weirder, it feels like they really  _care_. It's so alien to you, you don't know how to handle it, and it makes you uneasy.

"Can you-" Your request sticks in your throat. You're fully healed from your fall. You have been for over a week. You were a mess when Toriel brought you in, alerted by Ree's shocked cries. You never expected  _anyone_ to come. You were barely aware you had cried out in the first place. You're so glad you did.

"What is it, my child?" Toriel asks warmly, patting the sofa next to her. You clamber up on the well-loved cushion, still fidgeting with the ends of your sleeves.

"Can you teach me how to knit?" You ask, all in a rush. Your words jumble over each other until you're sure she can't understand you. A soft laugh spills through the air above your head, but it doesn't sound mean.

"Of course, my child," Toriel assures you. "I would be delighted." You peek up at her through your bangs in shock.

"You- you would?" You whisper, certain that now she'll laugh and take it back, tell you that of  _course_ she didn't mean it, it's not like you're her  _real_ child. It's not like you're something she gives a shit about.

"Absolutely," she tells you instead. "Here, let me set you up with your own basket. We can learn here together if you'd like."

"Yes, please," you mumble. Your face feels like it's on fire. For a moment, you can't help but wonder.

_Is this what it's like to be loved?_


	6. This is the path I've chosen

"you know," the skeleton begins on your next run, slouching against a pillar. He sounds almost conversational. You stare at him dumbly, swaying, grip on your knife loose and uncomfortably sweaty. " _that's_ the look of someone who's lost before. say...ten times?"

You almost wish you could speak, just so you could tell him to fuck off and die already. You jab your middle finger up in the air at him, hoping it gets your point across. Sans just laughs, straightening up a little.

"right back atcha, kiddo," he says, winking and finger-gunning at you. You grit your teeth, nausea surging in your middle when you realize you can taste dust in the back of your throat.

His eye socket flares blue and yellow and you fling yourself to the side, dodging a flurry of bones. Your breath hurts in your lungs, but you can't pay any attention to it. Not yet.

 _You could always just give up,_ Chara suggests wearily, floating next to you, but you ignore them. They just don't understand. You aren't sure that you do either, not anymore, but you know more than they do. You're certain of that.

Gaster Blasters jolt you into the present and you launch yourself up, narrowly missing obliteration. One clips your foot and you crash to the ground, hissing in pain. Blood soaks your sock.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_ , you think, levering yourself up to your knees. You can feel vague waves of shock and sympathy from Chara, so you know it must be bad.

"you can always give up," Sans murmurs, in an eerie near-echo of Chara. You bare your teeth at him as the taste of blood swells in your mouth. You shake your head. No. You don't want to give up. You  _never_ give up.

 _But you do,_ Chara whispers, feather-light, into your mind. You swallow bitterly.

Sans shrugs.

"your choice, kiddo," he says. "but tibia honest? i don't think you have much left."

You close your eyes, head bowed, as the whine of the Gaster Blasters overwhelms you.

You almost welcome the oblivion that follows.

* * *

 You look up the path, adjusting your backpack straps on your shoulder. The sun feels too warm against your head, making your scalp sweaty. Your knees throbs from your fall getting off the bus. The bus driver didn't even ask if you were okay, just pulled away in a cloud of grey exhaust that made you cough.

Whatever. It doesn't matter. This is the choice you've made. It isn't like you can go back. Your mother made  _that_ abundantly clear. She was drunk, but "get the fuck out" sounded the same, drunk or sober. She doesn't want you and she never did. You're an accident, a mistake, and it would be better for everyone involved if you weren't around anymore. If you didn't  _exist_ anymore.

You're too much of a coward to slit your wrists outright. You've flirted with self harm (well, truthfully, it's been more than a flirtation), and you know it would be  _hard_ to cut deep enough to make it worthwhile. Most likely, someone would find you first.

Similarly, an overdose doesn't appeal. There aren't many pills in the house and you don't know what would happen if you took them. Would you die? Or would you just wish you had, while you hung over the rim of the toilet and hurled up everything you'd ever eaten?

You don't have access to a gun. A rope would raise questions and besides, you don't have the faintest how to tie a noose. You don't want to involve someone else in your death, so you can't just walk in front of a car. Even  _you_ know how fucked up that would be.

But you know the legend. Everyone does. People who climb Mt. Ebott don't come back. You don't know why. You don't know what will happen to you.

You don't really care.

That's the point, isn't it? Your throat aches as you climb, that sour-sharp feeling you get when you're suppressing tears. You wonder if your mother will miss you. If she'll care when she wakes from her drunken stupor and discovers you're not there anymore. You left her a note. You didn't want her to wonder. Was that the right decision? It's not like she can stop you, after all. If she wanted to, anyway. You doubt she does. She's never loved you. Never cared about you.

When you see the hole, you fling yourself down it without a second thought, arms flung out to either side like you're flying.

You can't stop smiling as you fall.

 


	7. You think I'd help a creature like you?

Frisk sags against the wall outside the Judgment Hall, breathing heavily. They keep patting at the front of their sweater, as if they expect another bone to punch through their stomach, spilling their intestines through their fingers in fat ropes. You watch them, dispassionate. You feel like you're supposed to care or feel sorry for them. You can't. Not anymore.

 _You know, it isn't like you couldn't give up,_ you suggest, not for the first time. Frisk's upper lip wrinkles, but it's a habit born of tired familiarity. They don't say anything, just use the wall to prop themself up. Dust is ground into the wrinkles of their shoes.

 _Why do you keep doing this?_ You demand. You don't really expect any kind of meaningful answer, if you get one at all. You've asked too many times. Frisk sighs.

 _You just don't understand,_ Frisk says. Confusion blurs the edge of their thoughts, a nauseating swirl of images and impressions. You can't pick any one thing out of them and it makes you want to hurl to try.

 _I don't think you fucking do, either,_ you say. Frisk brushes your concerns away like dust off their shorts.

 _I don't suppose you want to help?_ Frisk asks, thoughts heavily flavored with grim humor.

 _I'd rather die,_ you say sweetly.  _Oh wait! I did!_

 _That's not funny,_ Frisk sighs.

 _You wouldn't know a joke if it smashed you in the head with a funny bone,_ you tell them as they march back into the Judgment Hall, knife held up and ready.

They're pinned against the wall before they even make it fully into the room. Blood pools on the floor beneath them, a sickening dripping sound meeting your ears before the world dissolves to black around you.

* * *

 Buttercups are one of the worst things you've ever put in your mouth, and that includes when you thought you'd try dog kibble. At least dog kibble didn't make your throat blister. You shred each petal between your teeth, relishing in the bitterness that wells. It hurts to swallow, but you will yourself not to care. It's a small price to pay when you're trying to save the world. You deserve nothing less.

There's a knock at the door, startling you into nearly dropping the buttercups before you shove the rest in your mouth and swallow as fast as you can. The last freshet of pain fades just as Toriel pokes her head around the edge of the door.

"Are you all right, my child?" She asks gently. "Do you need anything?"

"Water, please?" You request, your voice nothing but a husk. Guilt splinters through you as she nods, disappearing back into the hallway. You scrub at your mouth with the back of your hand, hoping no shreds of incriminating evidence remain.

All too soon, Toriel returns, pressing a glass of cool water into your hands. She has to help you drink, the muscles of your throat working. It hurts like hell, even more than eating poison, and you will yourself not to care even harder. It doesn't really work.

The soft pad of Toriel's paw presses against your sweaty forehead, brushing clumps of hair to either side. You haven't been able to bathe in what feels like an eon. You feel disgusting.

 _You are disgusting,_ your brain reminds you.

You don't know what to say to that.


	8. My actions are as pointless as my breath

"ya know, you look bone tired."

You don't even look up at his banter. What's the point? You already know how it's going to go down. You might be getting faster-

But you're never going to win. The futility of your actions has soaked into your skin as surely as the dust engrained in your shoes. You might as well just lie down and die.

Instead, you spare him. You can feel Chara's shock, a brilliant jolt through your head. When you chance a glance at the skeleton, he looks surprised. His pupils have become white pinpoints. You blink. You haven't seen  _those_ in a while."

"...you're sparing me?" Sans asks. "finally. buddy. pal. i know how hard it must be to make that choice. to go back on everything you've worked up to. i want you to know... i won't let it go to waste. c'mere, pal."

You feel like it has to be a trick. It can't be this easy. Just sparing him. Just giving up, with no further consequence. Can it? Chara certainly doesn't think so. Their disbelief oozes thick and cloying. You stumble toward him, your legs wooden, as the knife clatters to the floor. He opens his arms for a hug.

Just as your arms close around his back, you feel-

Pain. So much pain, you feel sick with it. You look down and immediately wish you hadn't. You're crisscrossed with so many bones, you can't even see your shoes. You look back up, spluttering blood down your chin. Sans stares implacably back, magic flickering in one eye socket.

"get dunked on," he says, stepping back as you sag to the ground. As you do, you can feel the bones inside you grind against each other. The pain is exquisite. You dribble more blood down your front, vision blurring to black.

"if we're really friends, you won't come back," Sans says, as your consciousness fades.

The last thing you feel is the brief, cool touch of Chara's hand against yours.

* * *

 When you wake up on a bed of golden flowers, the first thing you feel is shock that you survived.

The second is anger.

You can't even  _die_ right?  _Really?_ If it wasn't for the pain lancing through every inch of your body, you'd kick something. It's not  _fair_. You're supposed to be dead. You were  _ready_ to die. You  _prepared_ for this shit.

The ache in your lungs that settles deeper with every breath mocks you.

Fine. You heave yourself to a sitting position, trying to ignore how much your arms tremble. There has to be something down here, right? A convenient crevasse. An underground lake. There's stuff like that in mountains, isn't there?

Although you never pictures flowers thriving down a hole...

You shake your head, wincing at the pain stabbing your temples. It doesn't matter. Who cares about a bunch of flowers, anyway? Even if they broke your fall. Maybe especially because they broke your fall.

"Howdy!" A voice chirps behind you, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower. You're new to the underground, aren't ya?"

When you manage to get up and look, you almost fall back down in shock. A flower. A  _flower_ is talking to you. In a daze, you reach up and rub your head. You must have hit it harder than you thought. There's no way that a _flower_ is-

"Hey," the flower says, annoyance thick in its tone. "I'm talking to you."

You stare at the flower- Flowey, did it say its name was?- with wide eyes. It's impossible. It's-

"Here," the flower says impatiently. You feel a strange tug and all of a sudden, what looks like a bright red heart is floating in front of you. "This is your soul," Flowey explains. "Let me...help you out."

You tilt your head in confused query. There's something ...off about Flowey. You can't pinpoint what it is, but-

"Have some friendliness pellets," Flowey proclaims, with a brilliant, wide grin. "Be sure to get them all!"

It's by chance you brush against one. It stings, like you've just been attacked by an angry wasp. You jump.

"You _idiot,_ " Flowey says, face stretching into a mockery of its former smile. More friendliness pellets pelt against you, bruising your soul. You watch lines spiderweb across it, cracking its surface. "In this world, it's kill or be killed."

You know you should move. You should fight back. You should-

You sit down. Lethargy weighs you down. You don't even mind the pain anymore.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? You wanted to die. It's a little weird it's happening at the leaves of a talking flower, but that's okay.

It doesn't-

It doesn't matter anymore.

Nothing does.


	9. Are you even capable of mercy?

This time, Frisk lingers in the darkness before a reset. You don't know why. Did the skeleton's last words actually get through to them? Even you were shocked at his betrayal, although you can't blame him. Did Frisk  _really_ think that he'd accept mercy? After all this time? When Frisk hugged him, the dust of his brother clung to his jacket, for fuck sake.

Frisk looks...scared. Confused. You don't understand.

 _All right, what's wrong?_ You demand, marching over to them. They jump when you reach them, their whole body trembling.

 _N-nothing_ , they tell you. You know it's a lie.

 _Sans,_ you guess. They flinch. Jackpot.  _What's the matter, Frisk? A little back-stabbing get to you? Tit for tat, isn't that right?_

 _Stop it!_ They shout, still trembling.  _You don't-_

 _Let me guess,_ you interrupt.  _I don't understand. Blah blah blah. That got old ten resets ago. Don't you think it's time you tried something new? Like oh, say, I don't know, mercy? Have you ever heard of that concept?_

 _I-_ Frisk stops. Their arms curl around their body, hands fisting in their sweater.  _I don't. Know how._ At that pained admission, a blush spreads across their face. If you concentrate, you can almost feel the heat.

 _You have to be kidding me,_ you say. They don't say anything.  _Just don't knife people. No knife. No stabby-stab. No stick action. No weapons. There._

 _It's not that easy and you know it,_ Frisk snaps. You open your mouth to retort, then you're forced to shut it because well, they aren't wrong. Are they? The ghost of your failed plan hangs over you like a shroud. Bitterness traces your lips and you clamp them shut, resisting the urge to vomit.

 _Fine,_ you say, raking both hands through your hair.  _We can figure it out together then. Okay?_

Frisk looks up hesitantly. They extend one shaking hand to you. When you take it, you can feel the warmth of their fingers.

 _Okay,_ Frisk says. The world dissolves around you.

This time, you wake up in a bed of golden flowers.

You could weep with relief.

* * *

 

"All humans are bad," you say in a lecturing tone. You don't even care how much Ree's ears droop (well, maybe just a little). It's time that he learns the ways of the world above. The surface isn't the utopia he imagines it to be and you know it's all humanity's fault. "We're born bad. It's in our blood." The mention of blood makes you remember the secrets lurking beneath your sweater sleeves and you have to fight the urge to scratch or pick at them. Only Toriel knows they exist and you intend to keep it that way.

"But you aren't bad," Ree objects.

"I am," you tell him. "I'm the worst of the lot." You know it's melodramatic when you say it, but Asriel doesn't care about the melodrama. (How can he, when he's constantly drawing himself as the God of Hyperdeath?) He just cares about what he perceives as wrong. It's annoying.

"Well, I think you're good," he tells you, stubborn as always. "I think you're the best of the lot." You sigh. He doesn't understand and you don't know how to make him understand. Not without hurting him, maybe, and the thought makes your skin crawl. You don't want to hurt Ree. (You know you will somehow, anyway. You were born bad, and that's all you know how to do.)

"Pass me the red crayon, would you?" You ask instead, changing the subject. "I need it."

"I'm gonna draw you as the best human in the world," Asriel tells you.

"What, next to you, the God of Hyperdeath?" You tease. Ree's face reddens.

"Chara," he whines, tugging at one ear. "He's really cool, you know-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," you interrupt. "Gimme the red crayon already."


	10. I still feel my sins crawling on my back

It's eerie, following the woman you stabbed in the back. She doesn't seem to remember it at all. You don't think that she'd greet you so warmly if she did, or rescue you from Flowey. She'd probably let Flowey kill you. You wonder if maybe you would have been better off if he had. Chara scoffs and tells you not to be so ridiculous, but you can tell they kind of wonder about it, too.

She calls you Frisk. She accepts that you can't speak. To your familiar delight, she still knows sign language. She gives you a little notebook and pen to tuck in your pocket, in case you run into any other monsters who don't know it. You remember the notebook from your last run. You'd left it behind, tucked carelessly into a snowdrift. It didn't feel right, using a gift from a dead woman. You swallow and the taste of dust floods your mouth. For a moment, you feel like you're going to throw up.

She gives you Chara's old room. You aren't sure how they feel about it. They go all quiet, and there's a funny expression on their face, like they're hurt but have no way to show it.

 _I'm sorry_ , you think at them, as quietly as you can. Chara doesn't reply, but a thoughtful tilt of their head shows they understand what you meant.

At dinner, Toriel gives you a steaming warm slice of cinnamon butterscotch pie. You sign a thank-you to her and she smiles at you.

"I hope you like it, my child," she says. You already know that you will, but that doesn't stop the happy sigh that escapes when you take your first bite. Chara's longing is so overpowering, you give up and let them share. It's a good thing Toriel isn't looking that closely at you. Tears keep seeping past your drooping eyelids and staining your cheeks.

It's not until Toriel has tucked you into bed, door slightly ajar, that Chara speaks.

 _She doesn't remember,_ Chara says. The grief tingeing their voice is so palpable, you nearly recoil. Your breath feels heavy in your lungs.  _Flowey doesn't remember. Who does?_

 _Maybe nobody does,_ you venture to say hopefully. Chara laughs, so bitter it hurts.

 _The world doesn't work that way,_ they tell you.  _You, of all people, should know that._

You don't know what to say to that.

In the end, you just don't say anything.

* * *

 You think you're going crazy when you see Chara for the first time. You can see the room through them, in a blurry sort of way. It's like you're looking at some kind of weird reflection. They have choppy brown hair and they're wearing a striped sweater that looks kind of like yours.

Then they look up, and you can see their eyes are red.

You recoil, just for a second, and you can hear a bitter laugh echo in your head. Guilt thickens your throat, cold and slimy, and you hunch your shoulders in silent apology.

 _Even in death, I can't escape this shit_ , you hear in the back of your mind. Your mouth falls open in surprise. Is that- was that-

 _Greetings_ , the person in front of you says. You notice they're floating a few inches off the ground and your eyes widen. It's...unsettling.  _I am...Chara._

 _Hi, Chara,_ you think as hard as you can at them, waving for good measure.  _My name is Frisk._

 _I understand sign language,_ Chara tells you.  _It's nice to meet you, Frisk._

You beam.

 _Who are you?_ You ask.  _I mean- I know your name is Chara, but-_

 _Chara Dreemurr,_ they say.  _I... Toriel is my mom._

 _But you're-_ you start in confusion. Chara's mouth twists.

 _I fell down like you,_ they say.

 _Oh,_ you say. You don't know what else to say. An awkward silence falls until Chara sighs.

 _It's a long story,_ they tell you.  _Maybe I'll explain it later._

 _I look forward to it!_ You say shyly.

It almost feels like maybe-

Maybe you've found a friend. You like that feeling.


	11. Is that any way to greet an old pal?

You don't stay with Mom.

You want to. It hurts how badly you want to. If it was up to you, you'd just let Frisk leave and you would stay with Toriel, especially if you could find a way to make her see you.

Of course, that might make it hurt worse. You couldn't do that to her. It's not up to you, anyway.

Besides, you don't trust Frisk not to have a little...accident. They don't have the knife anymore. They don't have  _any_ weapon anymore. But that's how it started the first time, isn't it? Nothing at all and then, before you knew it, you were staring at a pile of your mom's dust.

 _Dirty mother killer_ -

But they want to change, or so they confess, and you're just going along for the ride. Mom blocks the way. It's an uncomfortably familiar sight. You encourage Frisk. Choose Mercy. The Fight button seems to taunt you, hanging in the metaphysical air above your head.

It hurts when the door clangs shut behind you, when snowflakes spiral down and melt in your messy brown hair.

But Mom is still alive and Frisk is alive and it's-

It's as good as can be expected.

 _I did it,_ Frisk tells you, breathing heavily. It's so cold their breath forms little clouds in the air. You don't think a sweater is going to be enough, but it isn't like you can just pluck a coat out of thin air. (Luckily, you don't feel the temperature anymore. A small benefit of being a ghost, you suppose.)

 _This time,_ you agree. They didn't hurt any of the other monsters in the Ruins either, but the hurdle was Toriel. The big one was Mom. Mom doesn't even have a scratch on her.

 _I can do this,_ Frisk says. You don't know if they're trying to convince you or themself. Or both. Their shoes crunch through the snow. It's eerie in the woods. More so now, since you know who's waiting for you.

A stick snaps behind Frisk and they jump. You resist the urge to look. You know it's him. There's no way it's anyone else. They turn and look anyway, shoulders hunched up around their frozen ears. Nothing. Of course. Did he have to draw this out?

Frisk walks a little faster, shivers wracking their body. You can hear footsteps behind them, shuffling through the snow. He's not trying to be particularly subtle this time. You think he was the first time. You don't know. It's hard to remember.

"hey, kid," he finally speaks. Frisk startles, a petrified squeak-scream tearing free from their husk of a throat. They whirl to face him, but end up overbalancing and falling flat on their ass. All you can do is facepalm.

 _Wow, graceful, Frisk,_ you send to them. Their face flames brick red.

"is that any way to greet an old pal?" Sans asks, putting emphasis on the word 'old.' You both freeze.

_Oh, shit._

* * *

 It's weird. You never really think about the surface anymore. You used to, when you first fell down. It's not that you really missed your family or school or anything like that. But you missed the feeling of true fresh air, the fresh scent of the evergreens. You missed the stars. The sunrise.

Maybe you missed the sunrise most of all. That and the wobbly-legged feral calico cat that hung out in the alley behind your house and liked to rub up against your legs and meow, especially when you shared what scraps of food you could. He really liked you and you think you're probably the only human he ever did. You hope he doesn't miss you too much.

"Are you happy down here, my child?" Toriel asks you. You look up from your clumsy attempt at knitting a sweater and it only takes a moment's hesitation to nod. Ree is in the garden, helping out his dad. You have a mug of tea and a half-finished slice of cinnamon butterscotch pie at your elbow. There's no yelling. No shattered places, no scrunched up fast food wrappers and old receipts, brushed into the corners and forgotten about. No one yanks you around by the ear or the shoulder. No one pulls your hair. No one touches you at all, in fact, unless you explicitly welcome the touch.

Toriel sighs wistfully, looking at her own knitting.

"It is good to hear that," she says. "I know- I know you must miss the surface world, child. But I hope that we can provide a home for you here."

"It's better than the surface here," you mumble. You can feel your face heat up.

"Why is that, Chara?" Toriel asks. She sounds surprised.

"Because you're here," you tell her.

You mean it.


	12. I suppose an apology is useless?

"no dust on you," Sans continues, stuffing his hands in his pockets. There are no flickers of blue, no scent of magic in the air, but you don't relax. You don't dare. " _that's_ a change."

 _What- what do you mean?_ You sign with trembling hands, trying to play innocent. You already know it won't work. Sans laughs. The sound is completely humorless.

"don't bullshit me, kiddo," he says. "you know  _exactly_ what i mean." You swallow hard. Your heart is pounding so fast, it hurts. After their initial sarcasm, Chara hasn't said a word. You suppose that's probably a good thing. Nothing like replying and looking totally nutters while trying to convince a murderous skeleton that you aren't a dirty brother killer anymore, right?

 _I haven't hurt anyone,_ you tell him. You feel an almost painful tug as he summons your soul. You try to muster a whiff of indignation that he's so blatantly checking your stats in front of you, but you can't. After all, you wouldn't trust you, either.

"i guess you're bone-afide, huh," he says. "so. what changed your mind then?" You point at him, your hands still shaking. You think he looks surprised, but it's hard to tell. It's not like it's easy to read a skeleton's face.

"well, then," he says after a moment, rocking back on his heels. "good. keep it up. and uh, hey, remember, when you see my brother..."

 _He's a human hunting fanatic,_ you sign, the corners of your mouth tugging into a reluctant smile.

"damn right," Sans says.

As you follow behind him, you can't stop shaking. Chara's words feel like they're haunting you.  _He remembers._ Of  _course_ he remembers.  _Sans_ of all people...

You don't  _want_ him to remember. You want him to be as oblivious of your dusty past as Toriel, as the rest of the underground seems to be so far, but he  _knows_ and it makes you feel cold and sick inside.

Once a demon, always a demon. Chara's right.  _You_ , of all people, should know that.

The loud tromp of Papyrus's footsteps through the snow echoes around you and you freeze.

"quick, kid," Sans tells you. "hide behind that lamp."

You scramble to do as instructed, Chara floating alongside.

 _You know,_ Chara remarks, giving the suspiciously human-shaped lamp a critical look.  _I don't get it._

 _Get what?_ You ask, careful to only think your reply.

 _You're behind it and all but like, to the side,_ Chara says.  _So Papyrus can still_ see _you. Does he just think you're another lamp or what?_

 _I...guess?_ You say. Chara's remark makes you feel even colder than you already do. It's not like you really know what's supposed to happen now, after all. This feels all too new and all too scary.

And as Papyrus tramps into view, you only hope that it doesn't mean your soul splintering into a thousand pieces.

* * *

She doesn't want to let you leave.

You don't want to leave, either- especially not when Chara so desperately wants to stay- but you feel something tugging in the pit of your stomach, urging you on. You don't know why you care. It's not like you care about the fate of the monsters, no matter  _what_ Chara says. There's no way you can save them. You can't even save yourself.

Case in point. Your fear is a live, wild thing as you stand there, trembling and defenseless. Toriel blocks the way. Fire dances in the palm of each paw, ready to spill over at any moment, like an unwatched pot on the boil. You don't think she wants to hurt you. You don't think intent matters much at the moment.

Chara keeps yelling at you. Telling you to dodge, that you'll be fine if you just  _move_ already, but you feel frozen to the spot. Your breath stutters in your lungs as you hold your hands up, like they're any protection against the crackle of flames. Searing hot magic rushes toward you and all you can do is stand there.

 _Oh, for fuck sake_ \- is the last thing you hear before total darkness envelops you.


	13. You know, if you actually tried...

Somehow Papyrus doesn't see them. You don't understand how. Frisk is literally  _right there_. They don't look like a lamp at  _all_.

It works anyway and Papyrus tramps away. You watch the orange of his scarf recede into the distance, ignoring whatever speech the comedian is currently delivering. You aren't surprised  _he_ remembers. It's kind of his thing, isn't it? You vaguely remember that. It's hard after so many resets, though. Everything blurs together.

 _Come on,_ you tell Frisk, when the skeleton has followed his brother. They look up at you sluggishly. Ice crystals have started to form in their fringe.

 _Shit,_ you say in disgust.  _This is just great, Frisk. You're going to catch hypothermia, if you haven't already._

 _What's that?_ They ask. They've reverted entirely to thoughts now, hands tucked up into their armpits in an attempt to conserve warmth. You don't think it's helping very much. Their sweater isn't  _that_ thick.

 _It means you'll freeze to death,_ you say as bluntly as possible. They pale.  _Exactly, so let's go._

The trek to Snowdin seems to take an eternity. You chivvy Frisk on as harshly as you dare, the thought of them falling down and just not getting back up a prominent fear in your mind. You're pretty sure that they would just automatically reset if that happened. On the other hand, you don't know if they could convince Sans they didn't dust anyone and get buyer's remorse. You don't think he would believe them. They're still cracked and withered inside and it comes out in every move they make.

 _Hurry up,_ you snap. You wish it was easier to take over their body. It's  _possible_ , but when they're like this, so focused just on putting one foot in front of the other, you don't think you can.

Bones block the way. You look up and your heart sinks to your ethereal toes. Papyrus stands there, arms crossed proudly over his chest. Sans leans against a convenient rock. You swear his shit-eating grin has gotten even smugger, if that's possible.

"A human!" Papyrus booms. "Sans, look! I've found a human!" He reminds of you an over-excited puppy, the way he keeps darting looks at his brother. If the situation wasn't so shit, it would make you laugh.

"sure have, bro," Sans says, lackadaisical. "you caught a human."

"Human! You have been caught by I, the Great and Mighty Papyrus!" He strikes a pose. You think he looks ridiculous.

Frisk waves weakly. Alarm slowly starts to bloom in your chest as you peer at them. They don't look so hot.

"I- human?" Papyrus leans down, inspecting Frisk's face. "Are you all right?"

Frisk topples over, right on the skeleton's feet.

 _Oh, fuck,_ you think. This won't end well.

* * *

 "Chara?"

You look up from your knitting, a scowl on your face at the interruption (no matter how much you're secretly pleased, as you keep knotting up the yarn and it's hard to fix by yourself). Ree stands there, paws twisting over themselves as he dances from foot to foot.

"What?" You ask crossly.

"Erm- do you want to help Dad and me with the garden?" He asks, speaking so fast his words trip up all over the place.

"I-" You stall for time, setting your knitting carefully back into its basket. You'll never admit it, not even on your deathbed, but Asgore still scares you a little. You don't think that he would ever hurt you, not really, but he's so  _big_ and you just-

Well. It's not like you've ever had positive father figures in your life before, now have you.

But Ree looks so  _hopeful_ and you know how he is when he gets this way, he'll never leave you alone, so you heave a put-upon sigh and stand up.

"I guess," you say. "If you don't mind me killing all your flowers, anyway." Ree's face lights up.

"You won't do that, Chara, come on," he babbles, surging forward and stopping just short of grabbing your wrist and towing you with him. He knows you don't like that. "We can show you all the flowers and tell you their names and show you how to plant new ones and water them and-"

 _What have I gotten myself into?_ You wonder as Asriel leads you out of the house. You don't know, but you think that maybe-

Maybe it's a good thing.


	14. The skele bros

You wake up surprisingly warm and comfortable. You can feel lumpy fabric beneath your bum, and there's something knitted tucked around you with care. The low hum of a television fills the background and for a moment, you wonder if perhaps the entire time in the underground has been nothing but a terrible dream, and your mother is about to wake you with a slurred shout.

 _Finally!_ Chara all but shouts into your mind, shattering  _that_ misconception. They sound frantic.  _You've been unconscious for ages._

 _Were you worried?_ You ask slyly, still not opening your eyes. You don't know if you're alone, but you doubt it. Sans would never just leave you alone, especially where his brother is involved.

 _No_ , Chara says, but it sounds defensive. A very confusing blend of emotions flavors their response and you're too tired to try and parse them out. Not now, anyway.

 _So where are we?_ You ask.

 _The skeletons' house,_ Chara answers.  _In Snowdin. Papyrus left to go train or something, but Sans uh 'volunteered' to stay behind and watch over you. He's sitting on the other end of the couch, for the record. Supposedly he's asleep, but-_

You doubt it as much as Chara does. You can't see him falling asleep around  _you_ , of all people. You could do  _anything_. You don't even  _know_ what you're capable of anymore. Not anymore. Toriel is still alive behind the stone doors, but-

"i know you're awake, kiddo," Sans says, interrupting your musing. You freeze for a moment in fear. Your eyes reluctantly pry themselves open and you scoot up against the arm of the couch. You're covered in an orange afghan and you pull it up closer around you.

"still chilly?" Sans asks. "gotta admit kid, it's n- _ice_ to see you okay. didn't know you were a walking popsicle out there. it's not snow bad for me, but uh-" He gestures at his bones, visible through the gap in his jacket. You can hear Chara snorting with laughter at his puns.

 _I'm okay,_ you sign carefully. Your fingers feel stiff and uncomfortable, but they aren't frozen anymore like they were. Your legs tingle and right now, you're just happy that you can feel them again.

"paps wanted to run ya a bath, but i thought that'd be a bad idea with you unconscious," Sans replies, serious for a moment. "you think you want one now? might help."

 _You need one,_ Chara adds, with a sniff of disdain. Like they can even talk. Their body probably smells  _awful_.

 _Yeah, it's what happens when you're dead,_ Chara sneers. You wince. You didn't mean for them to hear that. You chance a glance upward, where they're floating, and you see hurt flash across their expression.

 _I'm sorry,_ you think at them. They don't say anything, but the stiff line of their shoulders relaxes a little.

 _Sure?_ You sign to Sans, belatedly answering him. In a moment, you're encased in blue magic. You stiffen, waiting for pain, but none comes. Instead, he moves you out of the living room, afghan and all. He settles you on the bathroom floor, leaning over to turn on the faucet.

"let's warm you up," he says. "er-"

Red suffuses your face when you realize you can't take a bath in your clothes.

"i won't look," Sans tells you. It's not much, but you'll take anything. You shuck everything as fast as you can and nearly cannonball into the tub, sinking blissfully into a liquid cocoon of warmth.

Of course, no matter how comforting the bath water feels, it's still embarrassing as hell to take a bath in front of  _Sans_.

At least Chara has quite deliberately kept their mouth shut.

* * *

 They're just like all the rest.

You don't know why you thought monsters might be different. Chara says the Froggit just got afraid. But hey, that doesn't change the fact that you're nursing a bloody nose and a scraped knee, now does it? What happens when  _you're_ afraid? After all, that happened all the time on the surface and you always got in trouble if you were aggressive back. If you defended yourself. No matter what happened. Even when that one kid pushed you in  _traffic_ and you nearly got hit by a car. You punched him in the ear and he had to go to the emergency room. You got suspended. No one cared enough to speak up about  _why_ you punched him in the ear, not that you expected them to.

Why should different rules apply down here?

 _Frisk, stop it,_ Chara snaps. You can see them wring their hands together out of the corner of your eye. It makes you feel a little sick.  _They apologized. It was just an accident._

 _Right,_ you say sourly. You bend down and pick up a rock, relishing the heft in your hand. You chuck it in the direction the Froggit left, as hard as you can. Chara looks horrified, but you feel a sudden, strange rush of...

Well.

In later runs, you'd call it Determination.


	15. You clean up okay for a brother killer

Frisk looks like a drowned rat.

You're careful to keep your observations to yourself (unlike  _some_ people, you aren't prone to blurting everything out willy nilly), but it's true. Their hair is soaked and hanging in their eyes, and they have to doggy paddle because Sans accidentally filled the tub too high.

Despite this, you can't help but feel relieved. The weird frozen feeling blocking the back of your mind has started to thaw. Frisk looks better than they did earlier, even after Papyrus wrapped their barely conscious body in the afghan and settled them onto the couch. The trip to Snowdin had been a total blur, the tall skeleton had rushed Frisk home so fast. Naturally, you had been jerked along for the ride. It was a good thing you were a ghost, or you would have puked your guts up. Even now, you still feel queasy.

You expected Papyrus to be- well, the way he is, that quintessential  _Papyrus_ thing that you don't really understand, but to your surprise,  _Sans_ reassures his brother that he would be there the instant the human woke, no need to rush home from training. He didn't even make a pun, and you think Papyrus noticed, even if only subconsciously. It certainly soothed him enough to leave. Sans settled into his spot on the opposite end of the sofa and just...waited. Like you.

"stay there, kid," Sans tells Frisk suddenly, startling you as he blips out of the room. Frisk looks up in alarm, hair still dangling in their eyes. Soap foams on their arms.

 _Did I do something wrong?_ They ask you, a twinge of worry playing across their face. All you can do is shrug in confusion. You don't  _think_ so. But the comedian is always full of surprises.

He comes back, arms full of clothes. You blink at him as he sets them down, next to the pile of Frisk's snow-drenched things.

"brought ya some of my clothes," he says, scratching his skull. He looks uneasy. "you can't wear wet stuff, so." He shrugs. "i promise they're clean."

 _Thank you,_ Frisk signs immediately. Their face is as emotionless as ever, but their mind feels like they're about to cry any second.

"no prob," Sans says, stuffing his hands back in his jacket pockets. "hey, uh, you done?"

 _Yes,_ Frisk decides. They clamber out of the tub on their own, although you can tell that Sans is keeping a watchful eye on them, ready to catch them with his magic should they slip. They don't, and they're wrapped up in a thick, fluffy towel before you can blink. It's so big, they resemble an upright burrito. It makes you want to laugh.

"i'd uh, wash your clothes, but paps likes to be in charge of that," Sans tells them. Frisk sticks out a hand, making the OK sign with thumb and forefinger. "i can put 'em in the washer, though. save paps a step." He gathers them in a sphere of blue and blips out again, leaving you and Frisk alone.

 _This is weird,_ Frisk says, shivering a little. You don't think it's from cold.  _He's... He's being so nice to me. Why? I don't understand._

 _I guess he's giving you a chance,_ you tell them with a shrug.  _Or giving you enough rope to hang yourself,_ you think but don't say.

Frisk's probably already thinking the same thing, anyway.

* * *

 You can't help but like the skelebros the instant you meet them.

Well...perhaps 'meet' is a strong word. Neither of them actually know you're  _here_ , after all, floating behind Frisk on an invisible tether. But that doesn't matter. You vaguely remember skeletons when you lived with the Dreemurrs, but they were babies, weren't they? If they're the same skeletons, they've definitely grown up. A  _lot_. Papyrus towers over you. Sans is just about the same height (perhaps a little shorter, if you remember not to slouch), but you know he's older. You  _think_ you remember someone else, someone in a lab coat who could use multiple hands and was strangely goopy but-

Every time you try to think harder, the memory vanishes completely. You can't figure out why. It's getting  _really_ annoying, though. You'd ask Sans or Papyrus if you were able to actually talk to them.

Frisk doesn't trust Sans or Papyrus. You aren't sure why. Their face is totally closed off and even their mind is harder to see into, like they've hidden their thoughts behind a brick wall. You think they would notice if you tried to break it down.

 _What is_ with  _you?_ You finally ask irritably. They look up from the word puzzle Papyrus gave them earlier, brows wrinkled in a perfect imitation of innocent confusion.

 _What do you mean?_ They ask.  _I'm just doing this puzzle. Then Sans asked if I wanted to go to Grilby's._

 _Bullshit,_ you snort, but you know you have nothing to back it up. Not yet.

When they look back down at the puzzle, you can see the hint of a smile playing around their mouth.

You don't like it.


	16. Want to come clean?

Sans' clothes are too big for you, as you expected, but you're surprised they aren't that far off, especially height-wise. In the judgment hall, he had been a giant, constantly looming over you while white light overpowered your vision and white bone punched through your spine.

He's not supposed to be almost your height. It's...wrong.  _It humanizes him,_ Chara suggests, and you can pinpoint the disgust in their tone. Not that you can blame them.

Sans comes back as you finish dressing, sticking your feet in a hopefully clean pair of pink bunny slippers. He gives you an easy thumbs-up and you return it, pushing your damp hair out of your eyes with your other hand.

"c'mon, kid," he says. You gather up the afghan (surprised that it doesn't even feel damp) and trundle out to the living room with him. You can feel Chara floating along with you, but now that Sans has returned, you don't look up at them. It might look kind of weird, looking at nothing. And you know they don't want anyone else to know they're here. They've made  _that_ abundantly clear, when you wanted to tell Toriel. They even  _cried_. They tried to hide it, but you knew. You'd never seen them cry before.

Mettaton's on the TV, of course. What a surprise. You don't think there are any other channels. You settle on the end of the sofa, acutely aware of Sans staring at you.

 _What?_ You ask nervously. His eyes remain white pinpoints, but you still tense.

"what is it really, kid?" He asks. "something's up with you. don't get me wrong, i'm glad you aren't tryin' to dust everyone in sight. i  _strongly encourage_ you to stay on that path. but c'mon...you gotta give me more." You nibble your bottom lip. You aren't sure how to explain it, but you guess you're going to have to give it your best shot, anyway.

 _Get dunked on,_ you start. The pinpoints vanish. You swallow. Not good, not good- you can feel Chara's panic like the flicker of a hummingbird's wings. His eyes are voids, pulling you in.

 _When I- when I tried to spare you,_ you explain.  _You backstabbed me. Literally._

"and that made you wanna give up?" He asks, clearly skeptical. You can't blame him.

 _You said if we were really friends, I wouldn't come back,_ you tell him, staring at the orange puffs of thread covering your lap.  _I still came back, but- not like that._

"glad you took my advice then," Sans says, leaning back against the arm of the couch. His eyes have returned to normal, much to your relief. "bonely wish it had happened sooner."

 _I messed up,_  you admit, your throat thick with tears. It hurts to swallow, but you refuse to cry. Not in front of him. Not in front of Chara. Not in front of  _anyone_.

"something else buggin' me, though," Sans muses, tapping one of his phalanges on the bone white curve of his chin. You fidget, pulling the afghan closer around you.

 _What?_ You ask.

"who's your friend?" He asks you.

* * *

 You're tramping through Snowdin, the first time Chara properly possesses you. You  _really_ wanted a cinnamon bunny and they hesitantly tell you that they want to try it, too.

 _Have some, then,_ you invite. Before you know it, Chara shoves you into the back of your own mind and you end up watching as someone else manipulates your hands, lifting tufts of cinnamon-dusted pastry into their-  _your_ \- mouth. You can still taste it, but it's ghostly, like the memory of a taste.

 _Sorry!_ Chara blurts. Like this, in your mind, you can see them even more clearly. Just a kid, like you. The locket around their neck sparkles and you can see the blush on their cheeks.  _I didn't- I didn't know I could do that, I can-_

 _Don't worry,_ you try to reassure them.  _It just surprised me, that's all. I didn't know you could do that, either. It's fine._

 _Are you sure?_ Chara's eyes squinch with anxiety until you nod, as emphatically as you can.

Chara sits down on the stoop of the shop, scooted all the way to the side so they aren't blocking the way as they savor the cinnamon bunny. They even start licking their fingers whenever no one's looking, making you hide a giggle. It's almost weird, seeing them so carefree. Like they really are just a kid, death notwithstanding.

You want to see them this way more often.

You don't think it's going to happen.


	17. Don't you dare blame this on me

Shock freezes you in place, staring at him with wide red eyes. Below you, Frisk has gone similarly stiff. You wish you could leave. But Frisk's hypothermia episode hammered in how futile that thought is. You're trapped.

 _What?_ Frisk asks, playing dumb. You appreciate it. Sans leans back. You swear he's not looking your way on purpose, although you have no idea how he could know you're even there.

"i ain't stupid, kiddo," he says. "you in the judgment hall... you before that... it wasn't just you. it ain't just you  _now_ , is it?"

 _I don't know what you're talking about,_ Frisk says, feigning more confusion. You can see the tremble in their fingers, though, and the skeleton can, too.

 _Don't you dare blame it all on me,_ you think (carefully keeping it from Frisk's awareness).

"c'mon, kid," Sans persists. "don't hold out on me. i saw ya talkin' to someone else back then. i know enough signs, ya know. i'm pretty  _handy_ with it." He grins, but you can't muster even a wisp of a smile at the pun. Not this time. "you said their name. chara. who's chara?"

 _Chara, help,_ Frisk pleads mentally with you, keeping their hands tangled up in the afghan.  _I don't know what to say, I don't want-_

 _Let me-_ You gesture at their body, and they know what you mean.

 _Okay,_ Frisk acquiesces, bowing their head. They close their eyes and you step in.

It's a weird experience. It always is. Disorienting as hell, and it doesn't feel right. It isn't  _you_ and every part of you knows it.

You open your eyes and Sans recoils a bit.

"your eyes are red," he says. Your mouth twists in a bitter smile. You know that isn't helping, but you can't make yourself care. It figures that even in Frisk's body, your eyes are the first thing the skeleton notices.

 _Sorry,_ you say. You don't think even you can make this body capable of physical speech and you aren't willing to try.

"are you chara?" He asks. You nod, tucking Frisk's hair nervously behind your ears. You can feel Frisk vibrating in the back of your mind, thrumming with anxiety. "so who..." Sans trails off, but you know the end of that question.

 _I ate a cinnamon bunny,_ you say.  _I did some of the puzzles. Everything else?_ You shrug.  _That was Frisk. Frisk did all the-_ You make a deliberate slashing motion in the air with the side of your hand. For a moment, the world flashes blue. It vanishes as abruptly as it appeared, but you can't relax.

"so frisk dusted everyone," Sans clarifies. You nod. "why didn't you-"

 _I couldn't possess them when they were- when they were like that,_ you say, shifting in your seat. Your face feels hot and you can feel Frisk's shame, writhing like a live thing.  _It's hard to possess them at the best of times. It was too- I don't know. Too wrong. I couldn't. I still tried to stop it, though._

"okay," Sans says. "so who are you then, kid? why are you just-" He waves a hand. "hanging around?"

 _I'm Chara,_ you tell him again.  _I don't know. I was dead before. Something about Frisk pulled me from my- my grave. I think it's their Determination. I have a red soul, too. I can't leave. I tried. I just get pulled back to them._

The white pinpricks of his pupils disappear and you think you've shocked him. Oops. Was it not obvious you had to be dead?

"chara," he mumbles, musing aloud. "why is that so familiar?"

 _My full name is Chara Dreemurr_ , you sign, reluctant, and watch his mouth fall open.

"you're  _that_ chara?" He squeaks. It would almost be comical if you weren't still so anxious. You nod. "but you-"

 _Yeah, I know I died,_ you snap, in short, quick movements. He looks abashed.  _I'm not an idiot._

"i remember you," he says, his voice little more than a whisper. You hunch your shoulders. You don't know where this is going and you don't like it. "not well, i was a baby bones. dad said you got sick- but no one could cure it-"

 _It wasn't exactly a regular illness,_ you admit. Frisk hesitates in the back of your mind, wondering if you should tell him. If he's safe to tell.  _He'll remember, Chara,_ Frisk warns you, but hell, you've always been impulsive.

That's what started this whole mess in the first place.

"what do ya mean?" Sans asks, expression wary. You swallow thickly.

 _I committed suicide,_ you say.  _I- I ate buttercups. They're poisonous to humans, even more than they are to monsters. Ree helped me. It- it was my plan, so Ree could take my soul and pass through the barrier. So we could free the monsters. So I could be the hope that everyone said I could be. But-_ You pause, scrubbing at Frisk's eyes with your palms. 

 _The humans were bad, like they always are,_ you resume.  _They killed us. They killed Ree. He wouldn't- he wouldn't fight back. No matter how much I told him to, he wouldn't-_

 _He managed to get back inside the barrier, at least,_ you finish. Your fingers are shaking so hard, your signs are nearly illegible.

Sans looks shocked. More than shocked.  _Horrified._

 _Mom and Dad don't know,_ you add.  _They- it would kill them if they knew._

"kid, i-" He swallows and you can hear the bones in his throat click together. "chara. don'tcha think they... they deserve to know?"

 _No,_ you say firmly, shaking your head for good measure.  _I'm still dead, even if I'm around in ghost form or whatever this is. It would only hurt them more. All I want to do is help Frisk break the barrier and be a good kid. I think they can be. If they try._

"anyone can be a good person if they just try," Sans says slowly, in a contemplative sort of way.

He opens his mouth to say something else-

What, you don't know, as the front door slams open on its hinges and Papyrus walks in, bringing a rush of snow-dusted wind with him.

* * *

 You laugh because it hurts less than crying. You laugh because you don't know what else to do, because it hurts more than you ever thought you could feel. Because if you don't laugh, you think your mind might finally crack in two.

You poisoned Asgore and it's  _all your fault._

Toriel assures you that it was an accident. You  _and_ Ree, who hasn't stopped crying for an hour now. Now he's crying because his ears are sore from all the tugging on them.

Toriel says that none of it is your fault. That she doesn't blame you, and neither does Asgore. That she should have been watching you and Ree bake, anyway, because ovens can be dangerous and you're both so young. But there's no excuse. It's not like you're still a toddler. You know how to behave in a kitchen.

You thought it would just be funny. A silly little mix-up of words. You didn't know buttercups were  _poisonous_. They're just dumb yellow flowers. Aren't they?

But Asgore's been in bed  _all day_ and Toriel has to take care of him and give him medicine and  _you did this to him_.

You have to atone for your mistakes. You have to fix your error.

Your eyes wander to the window, in the direction of the garden.

There's only one way you can think to do that.


End file.
